My anaana was the first in her family to attend a residential school as a child. My grandparents grew up on the land, travelling by dog sled and hunting for their meals. My anaana was ashamed to teach me Inuktut after being physically harmed at school whenever she spoke her language. Her trauma is a large reason I didn’t know my language growing up. As an urban Inuk, I didn’t have the privilege to be raised how I wanted. It was only when I had autonomy and enough safety, education and resources that I was able to begin my journey reconnecting with what was taken from me. I was one of hundreds of thousands of Indigenous children who were the by-product of cultural genocide. 

But today, my irniq (son), now the same age as my anaana was when she was put into residential school, tells my anaana proudly, “aakuluk” (I love you). His first word was “amaama” (to breastfeed). As I have begun reclaiming my language, I am passing what I know down to my children. When my anaana received her residential school settlement, she brought her family — her children, our spouses and her grandchildren — back home to the places where she grew up. She wanted to show us the areas she would berry pick. The places she dug for clams and went fishing. Where her father and brothers used to hunt.

The hills she ran around with her family and friends as a young child. She showed us where she came from: how beautiful it was and how proud she was to be from the North. I felt immense pride and love for her like never before. I felt more connected to her and more understanding of what she’s taught me about our culture, our language and what I will pass down to the next generation.